Yes, I Will
by MyMadness
Summary: Marcey had called him later. Of course she had. And Greg had trusted that she would. Although certainly, not just anyone would have known what those three quick flashes of her tail lights meant as she drove away.  But the flashes had said, 'Yes. I will.'
1. Chapter 1

_** A/N: I did it. I was first to post an ALIBI story. : )**_

_**There is more to come to this story, and hopefully there will be more stories from other folks out there...**_

_**In case there is any confusion, Alibi was a TV movie that aired in the UK in 2003. It starred Michael Kitchen and Sophie Okonedo. And it rocked. All it needed was that little bit more. That love story that seemed to want to be there. The one that needed far more time than what was given.  
**_

_**A sort of present for dancesabove. But you can't blame her. She hasn't had a chance to edit things yet. **_

_**/ / / **_

Marcey had called him later. Of course she had.

And Greg had trusted that she would. Completely. Although certainly, not just anyone would have known what those three quick flashes of her tail lights meant as she drove away.

But the flashes had said,_ Yes, I will_.

Greg had heard that as plainly as if it had been spoken.

He hadn't really even known that he would find himself out there in the drive, mouthing the words, "Phone me."

It had just happened. The way so much just did between them. There was instinct and energy. His energy. Her sure instincts.

Where other people were suspicious of any strange serendipity – Greg and Marcey welcomed it. It was their notion of normal. Everything was not always smooth between them, certainly. But always eventually sorted.

Righted. Then just right.

Things were a strange brand of _good_ between them. There was a sweet, sure fitting. The sort Greg had known as a younger man when wood and design had been his passion. Not his business.

So, Marcey _had_ called him later. And she let him ask, in his halting way, if he might come over to her place.

/ /

_tbc..._


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Hopefully there is a little more here to chew on than the last time I posted. dancesabove, who is the reason I began this story, has my thanks for the use of her talented eyeballs._**

* * *

_So, she called and let him ask, in his halting way, if he might come over to her place…_

/

The visits that followed weren't dates. Neither could, nor would, give those evenings that name.

After all, he was still married. And would be for months, no doubt, until things were figured out. But more than that, there was too much history between the new pair. Too much to allow anything between them to seem as mundane as a date.

When they were together, it was a very intentional sort of 'together.' He thought about how different it was from the days he'd spent with Linda in the past year or two. He did not want to compare. But he could not help but do it.

He was a man who had been married 19 years. Who had thought he was in love with his wife. Who had thought his wife was in love with him.

And Marcey could read the resultant unease in him as he stood there facing her in her living room.

She fixed him with something of a worried look. Although her face was gentle, all the same. "Is it just that you need to be with someone while you wait for things with the divorce to work though? It's difficult, I know..."

"No." His manner suddenly was quite sure. "It's that I want to be with _you_. And if that bothers you, you'll need to tell me now."

She shook her head. "Doesn't bother me."

The tension between them was working up now. Like some static charge that needed to leap out soon. She was getting a flash of a school trip from years ago. A machine in that old museum hummed, pitched higher and higher as the charge built inside it.

And here stood the pair of them. Some threshold having been just crossed, and that charge still building.

_I__ want to be with you, _Greg was plainly saying.

_It's okay to want that,_ she was letting him know.

And still they had not touched, not _really_ touched. Certainly had not kissed, although she wondered with keyed anticipation how his lips would feel against hers.

But she reminded herself that, as much as she wanted to finally kiss him, it was all too soon.

Linda had left only two weeks before, on the day of the funeral. But now Marcey stood playing things back, wondering whether Greg had signaled even before that he wanted there to be something more between them.

"About three weeks ago you were here and you... put your hand on my arm," she said quietly, seriously.

"And you accused me of wanting one more thing not to talk to my wife about." There was a bit of nerves in his tone suddenly – a touch of frustration– as he shifted his weight.

"Well... _was_ it a move? You said it wasn't," she fired back quickly.

He sighed. "Not a conscious one. Oh, Marcey. It was just that... I wanted to..." He gestured helplessly, reached for her now. As lost in this moment as he'd been then.

"You wanted to touch me," she guessed.

"I wanted to _hold on_. To hold on to _you_," he tried to explain. "There are people who don't understand me. Who don't think I communicate anything at all. But _you_ understand. At least I thought you did. That's what I thought everything we've managed together meant."

And he couldn't help but recall all those moments when she had _just known_ what he needed: a pot of coffee put on, that glass of water that appeared on his desk. The arm that had grounded him, and shamelessly given him hope. Or the look that reminded him of what it was to have someone care.

When things had been darkest, most frantic, Marcey had had all the answers. She had given him surety. Leant him her confidence and acceptance. And now she was acting as if she hadn't noticed the way things were between them. Had he invented all of this, in his starved little middle-aged mind? he wondered.

"All of it," he added, as if hoping she could read his mind just one more time. "It _did_ mean you understood me... didn't it?"

"Really, Greg. Don't look mystified. I'm not psychic or something. I just..."

"Wanted to help a poor nutter? Or... cared about me."

She smiled, first with broad amusement over his manner and then with the sweetness he caused in her. "I cared about you. Eventually. Yes. At first, I just... I _did_ just want to help someone who needed me. Appreciated me."

"Oh, dear God," the words burst tensely from him. "_Appreciated_? You've no idea. Just no idea how much..."

"Greg?" She risked a hand to his arm then, and he stepped a little closer. Leaned closer still.

His words came as a whisper. "_Why_ can't you believe that you are special—even if you didn't hear it... before... from him?"

She turned away for a moment, needing just a bit of distance from their conversation. "It's late."

He nodded, winced over his stupidity. "Sorry. Really... sorry." He was sure he had just botched the whole evening.

"It's all right. Just..."

"It's late," he supplied sadly.

She wanted him to know that he was not being punished. And so she smiled for him. "It really is late. And I'll see you... soon."

"Soon? How soon?" he asked quickly as she walked him out.

Marcey laughed at what she hoped was only a play at extreme insecurity.

"I like it," she admitted. "That you think I'm special."

"Yes!" It was his quiet bit of self-congratulation that she heard as the door closed behind him.

… … ...

There was a sense of deja vu four days later, when they again found themselves at her flat. She looked at his face as the evening wound down. At the questions there. And she still wanted to kiss him. But would that be the beginning of a complete disaster, or not? she paused to wonder.

It wasn't that she'd been without men in the two years since she'd been divorced. There were men in the circle of people she socialized with. Men to chat with. Men to dance with. One who had stayed the night, with the promise of no complications. They were just friends, with that common need to dispatch.

But that was not what Greg was. Not what he would ever want. She'd known him a tenth of the time she had those other blokes, she realized, yet he had drilled deeper in that time, claimed more of her...

If she kissed him—and dear God, how she wanted to—it would mean admitting she wanted that something real. Something, someone for keeps. Deep in her soul.

"It's late," she told him. An echo of that other conversation from a few nights before. But tonight she took hold of his sleeve as she whispered the words to him, and her voice was not at all steady.

What she'd said was less a statement of fact than it was her wondering how this night might end.

... ... ...

_tbc..._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I am so very glad that there are Alibi fans out there who are willing to read this. Thanks to the talented dancesabove for the help._

* * *

"_It's late," Marcey told __him. An echo of that other conversation from a few nights before. But tonight she took hold of his sleeve as she whispered the words to him, and her voice was not at all steady._

_What she'd said was less a statement of fact than it was her wondering how this night might end._

… … ...

_Greg looks done in_, Marcey told herself. _He's tired_. _He shouldn't drive._ But she admitted, finally, as she dropped her eyes and tugged slightly at the fabric of his shirt, that she simply wanted him there with her.

_Could that be wrong... to just get something that you wanted, without a world of complication?_

"You could stay," she said, with an almost-awkward suddenness. Then, with flat equanimity, she told him, "I won't _sleep_ with you. I think it a bad idea just now. And I am not in the mood to slap someone who isn't listening. So, _if_ you stay..."

Greg bit at his lip before he told her, "I don't want you to think you aren't attractive. Desirable. That I wouldn't want to..." he was prattling on, he knew. "But I am too worn out, anyway."

And he meant _emotionally, _she understood.

The kiss seemed necessary then. Some sort of proper delineation was called for. She lurched forward, but then delicately and carefully pressed her lips to his.

His reaction was almost startled, at first. And then he responded. Brilliantly. It wasn't because of some sort of calculated skill that he kissed so well, she knew, but because of who he was.

_It was just a kiss, _she tried to tell herself, as she lingered there against him. But there was no getting the distance back.

This man was blindingly honest. So beautifully open. Marcey could read so much—almost _too_ much—in the emotion of how he was with her. Breathing harder now, she put her fingers to his lips to stop him. To keep things tamped down.

"Come on upstairs, then. We can _sleep,_" she told him gamely.

It was awkward. At least at first. She had the light out, and after hesitating there by her dresser, she decided she would put her pyjamas on in the bathroom.

Greg fiddled about nervously for a moment or two, once he was alone in her bedroom. _It boggles the mind, _he thought as he paced her floor. But he was really here, and barring any idiocy on his part, or misunderstandings on hers, he would stay the night.

Once he'd pulled off his jeans with a near-disastrous little hop, he threw them on a chair. Suddenly and quite irrationally, he worried over being thought un-neat, and hurriedly began to fold them. A moment later a relieved little laugh bubbled out of him as he caught himself at what he was doing.

This woman had seen him completely unnerved and unmanned. Had seen him flat-out panicked. And he thought it might make a poor impression if his jeans were not folded? He was the king of poor impressions—and still, somehow, he was here.

Greg got into the bed, not knowing what side she would want him on. But he needn't have agonized over it. Once back from the bath, she climbed in where she wanted to be without a word of complaint, and let him adjust. There was a smile from her and a quick kiss that caught him unaware. She rolled to her side, away from him, before he could properly react to it. Yet again he was left to feel that he was always catching up when it came to her.

Cautiously he moved to lie behind her.

"All right?" he asked after a rough swallow.

"Yes. Good. Fine." Despite the obvious nervousness, there was a warmth in her voice. She pulled his hand from where it rested on her hip, bringing it across her abdomen, and he snuggled in a little closer. He kissed her shoulders through the cotton of her shirt. Waited to be told to stop; to go to sleep. Instead, she squeezed his hand. He nuzzled at the back of her neck then.

And the limit was there.

"Sleep, Greg."

"I know. I know. It's just..."

_It was just a thousand things,_ Marcey knew. She could almost hear everything that played inside him, bothering him. She moved to face him. And then pet at his cheek. "Shh, Greg. It's all right." She kissed him on the forehead, and he closed his eyes at last.

It _was_ all right, he began to believe, as he rested his head against her neck.

And warm and good, she realized.

So, they slept. Just slept.

/

There was little room to misconstrue things, come morning. "We aren't going to lie about," she announced, with a teasing look from her side of the bed. Still, she leaned in and quickly kissed the groggy man.

"You take coffee or tea in the mornings?" she asked.

"Coffee," he said, rough-voiced.

She grinned at him. Left the bed.

She had distilled the morning's conversation down to a point where it might have felt like a mere sleepover. Might have, if he had not been shamelessly aware that he had rolled over to enjoy the shape of her rounding the corner.

… … …

Two days later they stood shoulder-to-shoulder doing the washing-up at her flat.

He ducked his head, seeming shy and aimless as Marcey put away the last of the dishes, as he waited to know if she would ask him to stay. It was ridiculous to be so ill-at-ease, he recognized, given what she knew of him, and given that she had glimpsed him in his horrid, saggy Y-fronts as he had struggled to get his jeans on that other morning.

If she would have him, he wanted nothing more than to sleep next to her again. Tonight. And he didn't want to think rejection could pummel him now.

With a little grin, Marcey let him off the hook, didn't make him ask. "You can stay, Greg," she said simply, a laugh in her voice. "Same rules. Good enough?"

It really_ was _good enough, right now, as wrung out by life as he was. He just needed to hold her. To feel the caring she had for him conveyed in her fingertips as she caressed his face.

And as her hand wound into his, he suspected she knew all that, just as she had known so much all along.

… … …

But it _was_ a weeknight. And so, with work to get to, Marcey was putting up with no excuses, come morning.

He tried to distract her once the coffee was poured. His hands gingerly at her waist, he kissed her softly again and again.

"We both of us need to get to work," she scolded. "Of course, I'm not the boss."

"No. You're right." He scrubbed at his face then. "They all know Linda's left." His speech sped up as he said in an almost throw-away manner, "If I go in late... Well, Christ, they'll think I'm suicidal." He was only half kidding, they knew.

"And how are you? Really. You know... about Linda leaving," she asked gently.

"Not suicidal," he summed up flatly.

Marcey nodded. Watched and waited to see if there was more.

Greg shrugged and looked away a moment. "Linda left me a long time ago, really. That's how I look at it. She packed a few weeks ago, but in reality it was a year ago that she left."

Marcey's lips were pursed and her eyebrows high a moment. There was nothing to say. And he read her look. _Knew_ that look.

"But I'm all right," he put in quickly. "You needn't worry. Just..."

"Time," she supplied, when he trailed off. "You need time."

"And you."

She shook her head and said a little warningly, "I'm not part of you getting over Linda."

"No. I understand. But you are what makes now, well... Good."

_/tbc/_


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N: Thank you all for staying with this and me. Madness here. You know I have been saying that for ages. I think I need a whole new word. No amount of Diet Coke is going to fix this. :)_**

**_My thanks to dancesabove. It seems wrong that she should have to edit her own present. But that is what has happened to her. Poor thing._**

**_Trying to make the decision of what insulin pump my daughter should go with. Fairly certain my head will spin off taking all that in - just back from the appointment with the diabetes educator. So, just tell me which it should be. :) To CGM or not to CGM? Sigh._**

* * *

Greg was busy at work the next week, getting in early and staying late, making up for the distraction he had suffered over the last month and a half. He didn't see Marcey as often as he wanted to, but he still found the time to leave her chatty, chummy messages on her mobile. She found herself playing them over and again on her breaks at work. And smiling ridiculously.

They met for late dinners out a few times, and each time parted on the pavement. Awkwardly. He wanted to come home with her, despite how impractical his schedule made it, but he wouldn't say that.

She would have gladly gone to his place to stay with him. But that was beyond admitting, somehow.

Finally, he had her to Rose Hill House, when the latest project at work was complete and delivered. He cooked her dinner, held her hand while she sipped her wine.

And he wanted, wanted to tell her that he loved her. But he was a confused, middle-aged man, one who saw clearly enough to know he was no catch. More, he was a married man, standing there surrounded by too many of Linda's things. All those memories of what he had thought was a good marriage crowded him.

Suddenly he doubted what he felt. _It was too soon, wasn't it?_

But he did know the simplest, most important thing: He wanted Marcey near.

"You can stay," he told her, with a feigned sort of nonchalance. "Same rules." He meant it as a sort of joke. And it would have been fine if he just hadn't blathered on. If he just hadn't followed that with an attempt at sounding humorously suave. "No matter how much you beg, I shan't make love to you."

He'd made things uneasy then. God help him, he had a perverse talent for that.

"Oh, Christ," he said immediately. "I'm not even remotely funny, am I, Marcey?"

She recovered as she watched the blush take him. She even laughed before nervously bringing a hand to her mouth. "It was only a matter of time before it needed _really_ talking about."

"I don't know that it does. It's rather simple. Obvious, really. I'm still married. And still a mess. And you..."

"I'm not as recovered from my divorce as I like to pretend."

He wrapped his arms around her then and waited until he felt her relax against him. "Really," he whispered, "I was going to say, 'and _you_ are a saint for putting up with me.'"

She nodded into his chest.

"Upstairs?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

… … ...

"Too weird?" he worried aloud, as they pulled the covers around themselves in the bed he had once shared with Linda. Marcey understood without any need for explanation.

"Very nearly," she told him. But her dimpled smile relieved his anxiety.

They had done this, spent the night together, four times now, and until tonight they had always been at Marcey's. But they had never planned ahead. Never let it seem expected at all. On his nights at her place, Greg had never packed more than his toothbrush, and even _that_ he had hidden neatly in his jacket, afraid to let Marcey know he had hoped to end the evening in her bed.

Marcey was the one in her smalls tonight. She had added a modest tee shirt to her layers as she had dressed for dinner that afternoon, and changed into some sporty boy-cut knickers, all the while pretending it had nothing to do with her hope that she would end the night snugged up with him as she drifted off to sleep.

… … …

The next morning, Greg heard her in the kitchen as he came down the stairs in his dressing gown. He looked at his watch. Marcey must have doubled back after he'd gone into the shower, he thought; she would be late for work.

"Forget something?" he asked before he had even rounded the corner.

He stuttered his step in the next instant and felt his pulse nearly double. His eyes were painfully wide, he knew. And his smile was gone. Because the wrong woman was in his kitchen.

"You'd said Thursday," he told his wife as he put his coffee cup in the sink next to Marcey's.

"For the love of God, Greg! It IS Thursday!" Linda said. Her brogue rang with annoyance before she finished with a sigh.

"Well, you've got me there, I suppose," he answered with a shrug. "I've been busy, so... I'll take your word for it. Thursday. Got it." He turned and gave her a painfully manufactured smile.

"Has she moved in already, then?" There was a nod of Linda's head towards the sink and the coffee cup with the subtly shaded lipstick on its rim.

Greg had been ready for that comment, and so his smile held, despite the protective wave he felt rise in him whenever Marcey was mentioned. After a painful silence, he merely offered his wife some fresh coffee.

Linda groaned her fatigue with the situation, with this man she could not understand. "I thought we could talk about furniture. The pieces I refinished..."

"Take it all," he told her off-handedly.

"The bed?" she asked pointedly.

"Especially the bed," he said, quickly.

It wasn't anger. There was no animosity in what he had said, he realized, as he took the measure of his emotions.

He was just done. So well and truly done with the past.

/ / /


End file.
